DISCLAIMER: own nothing, bawhl, bawhl.

WARNING: yaoi, lemon, author retardness.

Have fun ^-*


Gokudera Hayato has got a problem.

Sure, being unable to withstand the sight of his sister because of sordid past memories involving his mobster father keeping him apart from his mother and then leading to her dying in a horrible accident is kind of bothersome at times, but that's not what has had him downing worth of his weight in booze for hours now. And on a night-out, too – an important Vongola social event, hence he's totally embarrassing Jyuudaime by being a useless, wasted, murderous-looking sad excuse for a right-hand man…

which somehow ties up all too nicely with the matter at hand, because, really, there's no other way in hell the baseball freak could hold the stage were it not for Gokudera's current eye-legs (not to mention brain-mouth) coordination issues. Because dumb, loud, unnecessary Yamamoto Takeshi is not nor will ever be Jyuudaime's right-hand man. And Tsuna doesn't need a left hand of sorts, unlike the sports idiot has been trying to suggest for eons. No matter how addled his head feels at the moment, that much is final.

So obviously Gokudera's face is stained pale green for reasons other than utter, gut-wrenching envy, and those reasons can easily be summarized in two words, Martini cocktail. The silver-haired bomber is, in fact, perfectly fine with the beaming idiot gaining the stage to lead a toast that will most likely embarrass poor Jyuudaime to death – assuming that is merely a figure of speech, of course, since in no world dimension, be it future or past, would Gokudera ever be fine with Jyuudaime's demise.


Therefore, the source of Gokudera's problem is of a different, slyer, more subtle and just plain atrocious nature. Because, god help him, Yamamoto Takeshi is spitting mortifying nonsense into a microphone putting the Vongola name to shame and not only is Gokudera unable to feel disturbed, but he's actually entranced with the way the idiot's lips fucking move.

This abhorrent fascination with Yamamoto's lips is but the umpteenth piece falling in to complete the jigsaw puzzle of what Gokudera has come to know (and reject at once) as his attraction for the baseball nut. Which would be creepy enough a thought of its own without alcohol clouding the bomber's brain and lowering his defences, so that anyone looking at the silverette now would see a man on the edge of his seat (while barely able to keep from falling off the bar stool, as close watchers shall point out), his face a naked picture of mystified want.

In the back of his mind, Gokudera realizes he's being painfully obvious. Too bad the rest of his body won't cooperate, instead opting for standing there gaping like a fucking fish at the man on the stage, as Yamamoto does his worst pacing up and down in his tailored suit, calling out for people to intervene and pronounce a few encouraging words in Jyuudaime's honour, and, oh no, the idiot is not, he wouldn't dare, he wouldn't, has he not understood at all why Tsuna asked him to give the speech in Gokudera's place?, oh my, here he comes, fucking idiot, he is, he is –

"And, is that my friend Gokudera Hayato, inventor of the Sistema C.A.I. and priceless member of our beloved family, I spot over there at the bar? How are you enjoying the night so far, ne, Gokudera?"

It's like the typical high school nightmare when a bloody spotlight goes off, out of the excessive zealousness of who knows which member of the Giannini clan. Gokudera finds himself floodlit before he can properly process what's going on, and the weight of everyone's eyes fixed on him feels way more scorching than the blinding light.

He's horror-stricken and frightened at the mere idea of opening his mouth to say anything, given that what's most likely to come out is either incoherent drunken babbling or, far worse yet, a disgracefully aroused whimper that would probably have Yamamoto's name in it, just to add to the humiliation. Thankfully, the top blessing in Gokudera's otherwise pretty fucking crappy life, that is Sawada Tsunayoshi, wastes no time in stepping right in to his most valuable friend's aid. Take that, baseball ass.

"Oh, ehr, I'm sure Gokudera-kun is loving his time here just as much as we all are, so I'd say we just move on to the toast and then open the dances, aha!" The Vongola leader laughs nervously, his eyes drifting like mad through his pitiful conciliation effort. Gokudera is so grateful for his boss's intermission he fees like throwing his arms to the spiky-headed man's neck and giving him one nice bear hug, but the shadow of a doubt crosses his liquor-riddled mind just in time to prevent him from causing any more of a scene, and he just sits back, an idiotically appreciative grin plastered across his face.

That's wiped off too soon, though – around the time Yamamoto climbs off the stage and heads for the bar, insufferable eager smile tilting his full, sensually shaped, nicely hued lips.

"Yo, Gokudera. Sorry about before, Tsuna told me you're not feeling well."

Hn. Trust the idiot to mistake booze high for some kind of illness. "You dun deserve a mate like Jyu'udaime."

Gokudera is so concentrated on frowning deeply over the slurred quality of his words – maybe he's had more than he thought for the night – he almost misses the taller man's comeback. Almost. "Aha, well, yeah. 'cause I'm just a baseball freak, and all. Hey, you wanna dance?"

What? The pianist's frown intensifies tenfold. He can feel a migraine coming up, and the moron's disjointed blabbering is not helping any. Then again, nothing the Japanese says ever makes sense, so he shouldn't really be surprised. Those sinfully tempting lips of his are totally useless when not brushing against a microphone or wrapping around –

Ah, now that was a mistake. Sharp green eyes, now slightly blurred courtesy of a night worth of getting smashed, narrow as they lay on said pair of lips, currently in dangerously close proximity. Gokudera blinks slowly, attentively, but it's no use. He's drowning in a single mental picture, only white noise buzzing in his ears, covering Yamamoto's incessant chatter as well as the loud waltz music the guests are dancing to around them.

If he can kiss him just once, Gokudera resolves, thinking surprisingly straight despite his intoxicated state, then he'll be rid of this godforsaken Yamamoto obsession and everything will be back to normal.

The swordsman is still rambling on autopilot when the Italian makes his move. Leaning hazardously off the stool, Gokudera reaches out quickly to provide himself with the support of Yamamoto's shoulder, then raises his other hand to cup the back of the sportsman's neck. Yamamoto's puzzled gaze – hn, looks so stupid – is the last thing he sees before crushing their mouths together.

It's rough and sloppy, lacking any form of finesse, plus Yamamoto isn't really responding, but to Gokudera, it feels as heavenly as all scratched itches. Except those that keep itching and itching no matter how diligently you claw your skin off to find relief – and clawing off his skin he is, Gokudera reckons, as he makes sure to swipe his tongue across Yamamoto's bottom lip for good measure. A startled whimper reverberates in the Japanese's throat at that, and the bomber takes it as his cue to let up.

Yamamoto's eyes are half-lidded, following Gokudera's retreat with such a clueless expression the Italian wonders once more what on earth possessed him to see something alluring in the idiot. That is, until the scent of Yamamoto's cologne belatedly assaults his nostrils, causing him to almost dive forth for a second go.

Thankfully, one can always rely on the baseball nut to spoil the moment. "Is it a yes to that dance, then?"

Even struggling to get the liquor out his system, Gokudera is so stricken by the other's unearthly silliness he can only brush the question off with a meaningful eye-roll. "Don't you fucking get ideas, baseball freak. Your mouth is so undeserving I thought I'd lend myself over to the cause and infuse some right-hand man worth into it, is all. 'n it's only temporary, 'cause you are to take my place for tonight, and tonight only. Again, don't fucking get ideas." He sort of got lost halfway through his retort, so he doesn't know anymore whether he's still referring to the kiss or rather the second-in-command role, but Gokudera figures it won't hurt to remind Yamamoto of the exceptionality of both circumstances.

"Oh-kay. Sure thing." The Rain guardian regains his trademark goofy grin and slaps his fight partner on the back dismissively. "I'll just go ask Haru-chan then. You get well."

And just like that, Yamamoto walks away and up to the hyper brunette, spits some pick-up bullshit, offers her an arm and carries her over to the dance floor when the stupid girl eagerly accepts his invitation. Gokudera watches the scene with an arched eyebrow, more than just a tad nauseated. Are all those Martinis finally getting to him or is his stomach only churning in pity? After all, to choose a dance with the baseball manic over wallflowering, a girl must be really be desperate. Or moonstruck. If that's the case, these two were fucking made for each other.

The silverette contemplates his options for a bunch of seconds, before beckoning the barman to pour him some more. Hopefully, the burn of alcohol will chase away the ghost of Yamamoto's taste from his mouth.

"That was it for today. Meeting adjourned."

Gokudera waits bravely for his underlings to exit before clearing his voice, pulling at the knot of his tie and finally slumping down on a spinning chair, a low, shaky sigh escaping his lips. These family assemblies will no doubt kill him if he doesn't address the issue soon.

The issue being, god help him, Yamamoto's pants.

More specifically, the idiot's habit to stand during those meetings, leaning casually against a conference table, arms and legs crossed and those pants – the silky, protruding, full crotch of his suit pants standing out, begging for attention. Attention Gokudera finds himself all too willing to give, to the point he has to physically force himself to look anywhere but directly across from him – where the baseball nut likes to stand, probably out of the sadistic intent to torture him most efficiently – lest he lose track of his speech and do something horribly improper, like start salivating or jump the moron's bones in front of the sodding family council.

Whilst Jyuudaime is in Italy I am in charge here. I can't afford even the tiniest slip-up, let alone…

A groan leaves Gokudera's throat and he throws his head back in exasperation, the spinning chair squeaking eerily at the abuse.

"Yo, Gokudera. Could you spare me a sec?"

The Italian jerks his head so fast he cranes his neck, a pained grimace hidden by the silver bangs falling haphazardly around his face. Fucking fuckity shit. "The hell you want, baseball freak? Can't you tell I'm busy? Piss off." He manages around a choked sob of frustration. Of all people to walk in on him having an after-meeting tantrum, just…!

Yamamoto casts him a pregnant, slightly amused glance over the red clipboard he's holding and apparently studying – though the mere idea of the Rain guardian engaging in cerebral activities with nobody's help is really one to laugh at. "Busy doing what, exactly?"

Nnnngh. Worst moment ever to develop observing skills, dumbass. "As a matter of fact, I've got a phone meeting arranged with Jyuudaime in a minute. As his faithful right-hand man, updated reports are my responsibility, you know. Except, oh! sorry! I forgot you wouldn't know." A self-satisfied smirk blooms on Gokudera's face as he leaps on his feet, cell phone in hand, blatantly heading for the exit. "Now, if you'll kindly leave me the fuck alone…" but as he says so, the Storm guardian is actually bolting by Yamamoto and vacating the scene himself, stomping heavily on the ground as his feet guide him down the hallway to a secluded office in the north wing of the Vongola base.

Motherfucking goddamn shit, is all Gokudera's brilliant mind can come up with as the bomber shuts the office door by resting his back against it. This was the first time he mistrusted his instincts around the baseball manic to the point he had to make a run for it, and his fingers, frantically skimming over his cell phone's keyboard, are shaking with aggravation.


Breathe. Keep it cool. If you make Jyuudaime worry for your idiotic problems, I'll painfully slaughter you. Or go seek for Hibari to do it. "J-Jyuudaime! It's Gokudera, from Japan. Everything okay over there?"

"Ah, Gokudera-kun! Don't get me wrong… it's always nice to hear from you, but it's four in the morning here. What's up?"

Oh, damn. Way to go, genius. "My deepest apologies, Jyuudaime! I just… I didn't… there's this…" The Italian huffs irritably, his fingernails digging in his skull to relieve some stress, and failing miserably. "I-I was wondering if maybe I could... ask you a favour?"

Loud and unmistakable despite all the miles between them, a yawn resounds at the other end of the line. "Sure. And if I may ask you a favour in return, please, Gokudera-kun, try and get straight to the point, yeah?"

Mortification stains the bomber's cheeks beet red. "Will do. Please, forgive me for the ungodly hour, too."

"That's okay. The point, Gokudera?"

Breathe. "I-I was wondering if maybe you could use my help over there. I know you trusted me with the Japanese branch of the famiglia, but – there's so many of us here already! Italy is more of my territory, I speak the language and all, so perhaps you could just… leave it to the baseball idiot and Lawn Head to keep things in check here, and relocate me somewhere in Europe?"

Reborn's pupil sounds tentative, bordering on downright disbelieving. "Let me process this. You are offering to give your leading role over to Yamamoto and Sasagawa nii-san, and for what reason, again?" Even thick with sleep, Tsuna's voice takes on a sharper edge as Iemitsu's son falls into Vongola Boss mode. "Gokudera-kun… what's wrong? I can tell you're keeping something from me."

The silverette gasps, then bites harshly on his lower lip to dissimulate his surprise. Damn that awesome Hyper Intuition of his. At the rate they're going, it's but a matter of minutes before his formidable Jyuudaime squeezes up to the tiniest detail of his dirty little secret out of him. If he were not the kind and amazing person they all know him to be, Gokudera has to admit, the Vongola leader would be pretty fucking scary to his subordinates, too. "It's nothing! Really, nothing, nothing Jyuudaime should be concerned about. Please, forget I even called and just go back to sleep. I'm sorry for bothering you."

"Wait, no, Gokudera…!"

"Sweet dreams, Jyuudaime." The Italian murmurs precipitously and quits the call, then turns off his phone for good measure.

The Storm guardian bangs none too gently his head against the wall. Crap. He can't go on like this, risking to mortally embarrass himself at each and every family assembly, and sure as hell he can't just, just… yield to his low impulses and, and –

"Gokudera? Are you in there?"

Well, shit.

"Go away!" Gokudera shouts before he can help himself. So much for misleading the idiot.

Yamamoto's cheerful voice reaches his ears even though he slams his palms against them to muffle the ominous sound. "I just got a text from Tsuna. Strange, thought it was nighttime in Italy now."

Oh, great. Now even the baseball idiot outsmarts him! Gokudera can feel his pride rush to go curl up and die in his core.

The Rain guardian is not done blabbering yet. "It says to go find you and tell you… something, huh, how's this read?, … ah, yes: 'home is where your heart is'!"

As if on cue, Gokudera's heart leaps in his throat at the words. Might it be Jyuudaime…?

"And there's more, though, aha!, you'll want my head for saying this!"

What, what, what? "Just spill it, dimwit!"

For no logical reason, Yamamoto's tone softens a bit as he complies. "It says, 'don't be afraid'."

There. Gokudera gulps thickly as realization hits him with utmost certainty now. It's plain to see those few minutes they talked on the phone were enough for his superlative Jyuudaime to take on his problem, and texting Yamamoto to have him deliver the message has been his boss's superb way of directing Gokudera towards the solution of his inner dilemma.

After all, the bomber muses as he pulls the door open on a smiling Yamamoto's face, it's not like he needs anyone's blessing but Jyuudaime's to go through with his plan.

"Like hell I'm afraid." He practically growls as he jerks the baseball nut by his tie and pulls him inside, slamming the door shut behind him with a well-aimed kick.

Yamamoto's merry face wavers a fraction as the Japanese takes notice of the steel green stare fixed on him, studying his features close-up with such sheer intensity it might as well be digging holes wherever it lays. "Ahem, Gokudera… what…?"

"Shut up. I'm pondering."

And pondering he is, though, if he were just a little honest with himself, the Vongola's second-in-command should admit this particular decision was already taken, and not entirely by his own doing, either.

If he can blow him just once, the former pianist calculates while giving his opponent a nice onceover, everything will be alright again.

That settles it. Driven solely by a pure rush of adrenaline as in most important things in his life, the Italian hitman grabs his annoying colleague by the rims of his unbuttoned suit jacket and shoves him up against the nearby wall, hard.

"Whoa! Watch my head!"

"Why would I? It's empty anyway."

Yamamoto never takes Gokudera's verbal assault seriously – his mistake – so his good mood doesn't seem affected. At least, not until he's once more jostled against the wall and the silverette's hand drops to the buckle of his belt. "A-Aha, what are – "

He's brusquely silenced by the Italian pushing at his chest with his free hand, effectively knocking the wind out of the swordsman's lungs. "Let's get this over and done with."

"Get what done…?"

True to his words, Gokudera wastes no time in falling on his knees and giving Yamamoto's belt a harsh tug. Deft pianist fingers yank the buckle loose in no time, although hindered by the ballplayer's struggling all the while.

"W-Wait, Gokudera! The hell you think you're doing? !"

The bomber stops in his ministrations barely the time it takes him to shoot upward his deadliest glare. "What does it look like I'm doing? And don't even think for a second I'm any happier about this than you. I wasn't really given a choice on the matter, not anymore than you are at present." Now, if the idiot would just let him…

He doesn't go farther than popping the top button of Yamamoto's fly out of its hole, though, before the Rain guardian catches both his wrists in an iron grip, stilling his movements. "You are not making sense. Why would you even want to… to…" The infamous hitman stare falters at last, and the shy boy Yamamoto Takeshi used to be surfaces timidly as the fully grown assassin looks away, cheeks dusted in red.

Anything but touched by the sight, Gokudera snorts noisily in spite. "I thought I just said it's not that I want to, shithead. It's that I have to."

And from here on, he sets about accomplishing his mission with such determination even Yamamoto's born-to-kill mode could not deter him. That is, if the swordsman was still putting up a real fight, rather than half-hearted attempts at jerking away. Later, once this is over, the Storm guardian will replay the scene in his head and frown at Yamamoto's sudden surrender; for now though, it matters shit what the idiot does, just as long as he holds still and lets Gokudera have his way.

Naturally, he doesn't undress him – only pulls Yamamoto's slacks and briefs down as far as he must in order to provide himself with manoeuvring room. There's a brief moment of panic when the brunette's manhood comes into sight – here we go, here we… fuck!, and it's not even hard! – and Gokudera wonders just how to do what he's got in mind with his mouth gone dry as sandpaper. Then he breaks all hesitation by cupping Yamamoto's sac in his hand, catching the man off guard and causing him to buck his hips with a strangled cry. The now awakening cock in front of him thwacks Gokudera in the face, which for some reason the Italian finds unhealthily arousing. Keeping his lips pressed together to prevent any sound from escaping, the Storm guardian wraps the hand not busy fondling Yamamoto's balls around the Japanese's length, and gives an experimental tug. Then another, and another, and one more grazing his wrist against the base, and a fourth swiping his thumb across the sensitive tip, and there, Yamamoto makes a small, needy sound in his throat.

"D-Damn, Hayato…"

That does it.

The swordsman is still struggling to recover from the sharp shock of desire rushing through his gut when the fingers previously stroking him move around to grab his ass cheek, leaving Yamamoto's front to the care of an ever-so-eager tongue. Gokudera's left hand palms the tanned man's balls gently, while the silverette starts licking up the swelling member, gaining strength and confidence as he goes. His taste buds aren't exactly feasting over the offered treat – who the fuck knew it would be so spicy? – but there's something disturbingly hot about his own spit dripping off his lip to land on Yamamoto's dry cock, moistening it nice and dandy so that every time he goes down on him it feels smoother than before.

Soon enough, Gokudera finds himself short of breath. He pulls back for a moment, taking the time to both slow down his crazy heartbeat and debate whether it's okay to move onto the serious business already, but one of Yamamoto's large hands falls on top of his head, pulling at silver hair urgently.

"Why are you stopping?"

It's crazy how breathless he sounds. The unadulterated lust in his voice goes straight to Gokudera's groin, who shifts around in his uncomfortably tight pants before latching back onto the Japanese's awaiting erection.

He trails open-mouthed kisses across the whole length, sticking his tongue out to give a playful swirl here and there. Beneath him, Yamamoto shudders in bliss, and Gokudera can feel the heat radiating off his skin in waves. The Italian takes in a shaky breath, thus inhaling the smell of the other's fierce arousal. It speaks of musk, sweat, man, and the bomber can't stifle a hungry groan before pulling Yamamoto flush against him and press his lips to the man's tip.

He kisses it gently, blows softly over it (Yamamoto writhes in helpless abandon), then curls his lips to cover the sharp edges of his teeth and welcomes the now considerably engorged member in. Breathing through his nose, Gokudera tries to tell himself not to focus on the strong flavour, but curiosity has the better of him, and he's cautiously pressing his tongue against the underside before long. The reaction that sparks in Yamamoto – the hitman whimpers unintelligibly and bucks his hips hard – is well worth the discomfort of having another's man throbbing dick grow in his mouth, Gokudera resolves, and clings demandingly onto his lover's butt to brace himself as he swallows.

"Wh-Whoa, nnnnngh, ah!"

Yamamoto bends over in shock, the rocking motion forcing his cock further down Gokudera's open throat. The Italian gags at the intrusion and reflexively attempts to jerk away, only to be prevented by the Rain guardian's hand scraping at his scalp.


The pianist cradles the other's balls in his left hand to try and distract him from the storm of sensation in his loins. It works, in a way (Yamamoto's knees give away pitifully), and Gokudera uses the Japanese's weakness to shove him steadily back against the wall, fingernails digging in tanned hips to emphasize the restriction. Hold still, dammit.

His own control is starting to slip dangerously, though, the Vongola's second notices as he bobs his head with intention, thirsting, himself, for the relentless twitching of Yamamoto's cock. The wet tip nudges against his throat every few thrusts, making it difficult to swallow around the invading member, yet somehow he longs for more, craves the constricting feeling in his air-deprived lungs like he never thought possible. The iron grip Yamamoto keeps on his hair only fuels his excitement, this constant swinging between dominant and submissive turning out as downright inebriating. A self-pleased moan surges from the very back of his overworked throat, and Gokudera starts in alarm at both the sound itself and Yamamoto's husky rejoinder.


Something throbs consistently in the privacy of Gokudera's pants, and the silverette finds himself clutching onto his lover's ass for dear life as he takes him as deep as it will go, nose buried in the fine hair below the Japanese's navel. That intoxicating smell is at its strongest here, and the Storm guardian can't help the wild snapping of his own hips, his confined erection desperate for any kind of friction. An idea pops up in his mind and he crawls on slightly sore knees to scoot closer – here, just here, Yamamoto's lower leg bumps against his hard-on, causing the Italian to whimper and start practically dry humping the taller man. Yamamoto must notice, too, for he growls low in his throat – a feral, exquisite sound Gokudera wouldn't ever think the baseball freak capable of – and yanks roughly at his friend's hair, initiating a vicious thrust of his own.

The combination of being manhandled plus the reflexive juddering of the brunette's leg between his somewhat spread thighs sends Gokudera over the edge. Fighting the insistent pressure at the back of his neck, he wrenches his mouth away and looks up, green eyes glazed over with lust.

"Hayato, please…" Holding his stare from above, Yamamoto looks and sounds like a complete mess. He's so far gone his waist keeps swaying alluringly even with the friction from Gokudera's mouth gone, and the crouched man makes up his mind.

"Whatcha waitin' for? Fuck my mouth."

He is spun around, crushed between Yamamoto and the wall, before he even finishes the sentence.

Suddenly it hurts, the repeated banging of his head and the forceful jabs of the brunette's leaking erection prying his lips apart, but he doesn't give a flying fuck. Not when Yamamoto breaks his restraints and drives himself onward, giving Gokudera everything he's got, all the while making beautiful, animalistic grunts of possession. His thumb caresses his mate's jaw with surprising tenderness, all things considered, as he rotates his hips to slam home, then pulls back with a hiss, his palm rubbing Gokudera's cheeks as they go hollow. This, these subtle hints of affection that make handsome hitman Yamamoto Takeshi nothing more than a baseball idiot frozen in time, these are dangerous. These are not part of the deal, and Gokudera would brush the annoyingly gentle hand away, if only he weren't busy bringing said baseball idiot's orgasm forth.

The silverette's tongue presses, twirls, coaxes, and when Yamamoto goes perfectly still, a broken sob on his lips, prepares to milk him dry. The swordsman's thighs tremble as they struggle to hold their owner upright through his spiralling descent toward ecstasy; feeling the strong muscles twitch beneath scar-riddled skin, Gokudera brings both his hands to squeeze Yamamoto's buttocks and thoroughly enjoy this beautiful dance of powers they've waged. He draws the other man closer, makes a last ditch effort to blow the living daylights out of him, and, there, Gokudera Hayato has taken back control.

"Ah… shit!, H-Ha, Haya – ah!" Yamamoto comes copious and sour down his throat, and he swallows all he can manage given how he's physically trapped, not to mention bound by pride. He does, however, spit most of the Japanese's generous offering on the floor as soon as he's freed and allowed to turn his head.

The idiot's shaking hands linger obstinately within Gokudera's personal bubble, where they're promptly batted away and banned from the moment the Italian is aware of their tentative petting. Jeez, what the fuck does he think this makes us? A sodding couple?

Scoffing derisively, he goes as to push the insufferable dipshit away and get on his feet. Which turns out to be quite a challenging task: the raging erection miserably tenting the front of Gokudera's slacks won't endure anymore neglecting, and throbs painfully to remind him of just that.

"Hey, Hayato…"

Standing by the wall to steady himself, the Vongola's second casts his colleague a dark look. "Remember your place, fucktard."

Yamamoto's eyes darken a shade at the snide epithet, which is sort of uncommon for the happy-go-lucky idiot. Crossing his legs as casually as possible to hide his own arousal, Gokudera inspects the brunette closer. With his pants undone, flopping manhood on display, the swordsman is the very picture of spent sin, just as his round eyes, scarlet cheekbones and sweat-drenched shirt bear an air of dishevelment that Gokudera can't help finding enticing. The bomber's Adam apple bobs in his throat, but Yamamoto either doesn't notice or misinterprets the foggy gaze glued to his body, if the worry lacing his tone is any indication. "Can't we just talk about this?"

"Don't. Ever. Mention it." Will his legs do their job if he trusts them to take him up to the moron's face? Gokudera decides against risking it, and rather opts for pointing a threatening index in the man's direction. "I'm serious, baseball ass. You breathe a single word about this to anyone, you get to test firsthand the infallibility of my Sistema C.A.I.. Got it?"

The Japanese's lips are pressed tight shut as Yamamoto nods somewhat gravely, then proceeds to fix his clothing – much to Gokudera's unvoiced dismay. The firm line crossing his companion's handsome face right above the scar on his chin is the last image the Italian engraves in his mind before he crawls out of the office and staggers his way to the end of the hallway.

He doesn't think, doesn't stop, doesn't care. The base is virtually desert at this time of the day anyway, so he has no qualms about rushing to the nearest restroom, enter a stall and shove his hand down his pants to relieve the awful tension mounted during this endless day.

There's no denying Yamamoto is all that comes to his mind as he furiously jerks off, but Gokudera reckons it can't be helped, not right afterwhat they've done. Besides, he's not delusional: he never quite expected his obsession to disappear completely like it was nothing. He'll just have to give it time, which is perfectly fine, as long as he's assured the baseball freak isn't going to make a gargantuan deal out of their little escapade.

After all, you can't have idiots get carried away with one-time things.

Except it's not really a one-time thing if you find yourself sucking your mate off day in day out for over a month since you first gave in to temptation. His brilliant plan failed miserably, Gokudera is discovering new sides to his Yamamoto-addiction with every time they yield, staying in the office long past working hours to see when will they reach the bottom of this insane thing they've got going on.

Of course there are rules – Yamamoto is not allowed to get Gokudera off no matter what, and they only snog to fuel the excitement and speed things up, since the Rain guardian is such a big sucker for kisses and all things sap – but the Vongola's right-hand man knows he's losing control with every day he spends around this new, more private version of Takeshi, as he's grown to call him. In his mind, sure, never out loud, but still. It's enough of an alarm bell for the Italian to panic internally whenever they are together away from the stressful environment that's the Vongola base, because those, those are the times he has to tell himself…

Maybe, if he can fuck him just once this everlasting crave for stupid Yamamoto Takeshi will cease to haunt him.

Gokudera has yet to understand how is it that, when he finally gets the message through to a customarily clueless baseball lover, it's actually Yamamoto doing the fucking, pounding the silverette into the mattress with such reckless abandon Gokudera will feel it for days to come – but technicalities don't really matter, he supposes, when you've just had the fuck of your life.

Afterwards, Yamamoto lies back and watches his lover rummage through his things, let out the occasional curse and finally come up with the most needed lighter and cigarette he immediately puts to use. Standing by the half-open window bathed in moonlight, the bomber looks much more like some ethereal being than his real bitter self, and Reborn's protégé can't take it anymore.

"Ne, Hayato…"

A brief hesitation, one that Gokudera should probably use to snap at the idiot for using his first name, but, oh, well, whatever.

The Japanese breathes harshly through his nose as he lifts himself on one elbow to enter Gokudera's line of sight. Holding the other man's stare, however, proves to be a horrible mistake, the pianist realizes soon after, since Yamamoto's bed eyes are the most delicious weapon ever conceived by the human brain.

"Isn't this the part you start covering me in insults and swear to god this was a one-time thing, before threatening to eviscerate me should I ever tell a soul?"

There's a false smile plastered on Takeshi's face, the same smile giving his voice an annoyingly fake lilt as he slips his typical easy-going mask on. Well, he's even more of a hopeless fool than everyone gives him credit for, if he thinks Gokudera is going to have that now.

"You're forgetting the 'don't raise your hopes' part, loser." Hayato half smirks around the butt of his cigarette.

He's ridiculously pleased to see Yamamoto's dummy expression alter to a more genuine one as the man cocks his head to the side and smiles weakly, yet honestly. "Yeah, aha. That wasn't casual, you know. I'm afraid I have kind of gotten my hopes up, somewhere along the ride."

Gokudera's grin dies out at once, but Yamamoto is not done speaking.

"I… I like you. As in, really, really like you. And I know I'd love for this to be more than just our umpteenth one-time thing." Made suddenly self-conscious by the narrowing of Hayato's iridescent green eyes, the Rain guardian strokes the back of his head uneasily. "Of course, that's not just my decision to make."

"Save this shit."

Yamamoto bites on his lower lip, a pale flicker of hurt crossing his stare. It's gone before Gokudera can cringe from guilt. "Ouch. That's cold."

"You…!" Trailing off with a hiss of frustration, the Italian crushes the butt of his cigarette on the windowsill and jerks his head hysterically to yell at the man in bed. "You are never serious about anything in your goddamn life! Why make such a big deal out of this?"

The tiny, sheepish smile arching the Japanese's lips should have warned him, but no-o. What follows hits Gokudera like a ton of bricks. "I'd say that's because I care for you more than anything else, but then you'd call me a pansy and throw dynamite my way."

Time stops through the short gap of stunned silence the silverette has no clue as how to fill. Until fine old nastiness comes in handy, that is. "Damn right I would." Gokudera mumbles, sounding every bit as a grouchy old man, but feeling too close to an emotional breakdown to care. The only thing he'd ask for right now is space, space and time to brood, sulk, struggle and confront his forming bonds issues in solitude. The most inappropriate racing of his heart is not helping things any, either. His voice cracks a little as the bomber stiffly turns his focus back to the sleeping town beyond the glass. "It's late, we've got work in the morning." Clear your throat, smartass. He sneaks a sidelong glance Yamamoto's way, barely peering over the thin film of his eyelashes. One mere glimpse of the still naked, goddammit, man in his bed, though, is enough to void his efforts and cause his voice to strain again as he weakly suggests: "Shower here, go sleep home."

A flash of handsome bronze crosses Gokudera's peripheral vision as the Asian man rips the sheets off his sculptural body and sits on the edge of the bed, his front to the window – Hayato looks obstinately away. "Kicking me out because I spoke my mind, are you?" Needless to say, not an ounce of bitterness stirs the swordsman's tone. This man's fucking unbelievable. Some rustling noise and Yamamoto is standing by the bed, fighting to slip on his briefs. "Nevermind. I guess I should have seen it coming." His voice is flat, perfectly composed, and Gokudera's pride is kind of stung. Well… this…

No words ever sounded as final as Yamamoto's flippant, "see you at work". Left by himself in the disarrayed bedroom that used to be his inviolable sancta sanctorum, Gokudera knows some things won't be fixed, and some were not meant to last.

He just never anticipated how tough giving up on a one-time thing was going to be.

Tsuna's phone call finds him overworking himself to oblivion on a dull Friday afternoon.

"Hello, Gokudera-kun? Is everything okay? You were missing our phone appointment by seven minutes now, so I got worried and called myself."

Mortification at being reprimanded is the first emotion to swell the bomber's chest and colour his cheeks. "My most sincere apologies, Jyuudaime! It's just, I was going through the Mist guardian's report on that mines affair in South America, and – gaaaah, you know how Rokudo is, the file is virtually illegible. Seriously, what's with that guy and keeping a decent log, anyway? It's bad enough that we can't trust him with anything even remotely related to diplomacy, but to mess up a friggin' report! Not even that baseball idiot is so…"

No. He is not going there. After all, wasn't all this working his ass off even on weekends supposed to help him get his mind off bloody Yamamoto Takeshi, idiot extraordinaire?

"I'm sorry to hear you're having troubles there. It must not be easy, taking care of all the supervision stuff by yourself."

Well, to say he's 100% on his own on the Japanese boat would be kind of unfair to Lawn Head and somepeoplethatwillnotbenamed, but who is he to turn down some heart-warming Jyuudaime appreciation, again? "Well, yeah, but this is what a decent right-hand man is there for, right? I can't afford to be a lazy ass here when you're doing all the hard work in Italy with Reborn-san."

A sardonic huff resounds on the other end of the line. "Believe me, 'hard work' are the last words I'd use to describe life over here. In fact, since you've sounded so stressed as of late, I thought of a present to cheer you up."

The attention-craving teenage boy hiding in the recess of Gokudera's guarded soul gives a happy little squeal at the sweet, sweet words. "J-Jyuudaime got me a present? T-That's, that's too much! I can't accept it, I mean, you didn't have to – it's not a kitty, is it?" Here's the grownup having afterthoughts (well, what, you can't exactly blame him for dreading the company of another little Uri, can you?).

"No kitties. Well, you may come across Dino's pet turtle on occasion, but I don't think it has claws."

Huh? Even with his superior wits, the Vongola's second has to frown at that. "I must say I'm a bit confused, Jyuudaime. What does Cavallone have to do with anything?"

"I'm accepting your transfer request. I'll have you come over to Italy and send Hibari back to replace you. All he ever does is scare our affiliates off with his newly learnt Italian curses, and Dino is of absolutely no use when he's around. As it is, he'll be much better off in Namimori, all the more so since he never really wanted to leave in the first place."

There's something severely wrong with this picture, but Gokudera can't put his finger on what, exactly, that is. "I – wh… I thought you wanted me to stay here?"

"Silly Gokudera-kun. It's just as I said when I texted Yamamoto: home is where your heart is, and if your heart belongs in Italy, then that's where you ought to be." Tsuna says affectionately, but his faithful right-hand man has long stopped listening.

The bomber is too flustered to notice he's actually interrupting his boss when he blurts out in a rush: "But you said I must not be afraid, and I thought you texted the baseball nut 'cause you knew what was going on!"

In the break that follows, Gokudera can hear his own heartbeat go berserk.

Then, slowly, Tsuna's voice rises again. "I really don't know what you're talking about. My text was in Italian, so maybe Yamamoto misread? I'm fairly sure I wrote nothing about fear – I do know how touchy a subject that is to Gokudera-kun. And what was going on, again?"

There are three immediate implications to what Jyuudaime just said, and all three dawn on Hayato simultaneously, generating a brain overload that can easily be blamed for his final resolution.

The first one: Hyper Intuition or not, his boss has got absolutely no idea what his two best friends have been up to, and Gokudera was tragically close to spill the beans, with the effect of possibly marring Tsuna's residual innocence for life.

The second one: if his cherished Jyuudaime never suggested he entered any sort of relationship with Yamamoto, that means Gokudera's alibi for doing what he's been doing these past few months is gone with the wind. In fact, he never really had an alibi to begin with, and everything he's done with and to the idiot was solely his initiative.

The third one: for whatever reason, Yamamoto added the 'don't be afraid' bit himself, put up some token resistance and finally let the Storm guardian have his dirty way with him. For months on end.

It's about time Gokudera got to the bottom of this whole mess once and for all. "Can I call you back, Jyuudaime? I – There's somewhere I need to be right now."

He's on his way to Yamamoto's place before Tsuna's half-hearted protests can keep him.

Of all the Vongola's members' temporary quarters, Yamamoto's are always the only ones bearing resemblance to actually lived-in houses. That applies twice to his Japanese residence, the cosy flat he got himself in the outskirts of Namimori after his father's death. There was a time Gokudera would be invited over for dinner almost every other night, an arrangement that conveniently suited both Yamamoto's allergy to loneliness and Gokudera's utter incompatibility with cooking (runs in the family, if you ask him).

Of course, that had been long before the beginning of their… illicit affair, the bomber muses, his forefinger stuck to the idiot's doorbell and rhythmically hammering on it to signify his urgency.

Forty-eight billions of decades later the door finally bursts open, revealing a panting Yamamoto clad in his faded blue kendo kimono. The peculiar outfit alone tells Gokudera everything he needs to know, and the Italian feels a vague pang of remorse at his own rudeness as it becomes apparent the swordsman had been practicing in the back and could not hear him knocking sooner.

Yamamoto gives no justification whatsoever out loud. In fact, his manner is nothing if not blasé as he leans into the doorframe and performs a pretty damn attractive droopy smile. "Hey." For a moment he seems to dwell on the more appropriate way to address the man before him, only to give up entirely at last. "Senpai said you were staying back to finish up some work."

"Mind your soddin' business." Gokudera snaps more out of habit than genuine contempt, but regrets doing so as he realizes his default approach may not be most functional to his goal in this particular case. He'd better reconsider his ways for once. After all, what right would he have to call himself the sharpest pencil in the Vongola's box if he couldn't muster flexibility when called for? Shoving a hand down his pocket to toy with the carton of cigarettes stashed there – a renowned tension outlet and the next best thing to an actual smoke – the Italian bows his head to make sure his chin isn't raised too high in defiance before grinding out as unassumingly as his very being will let him: "Can I come in?"

For a moment he's seriously afraid the ballplayer will deny him, but that, of course, would be going against the basic principles of hospitality, and Yamamoto Takeshi is nothing if not well-bred. Not the mention the guy naturally possesses people skills, a concept Gokudera on his part is totally foreign to. "Sure, if you wish!" The Japanese steps aside to make way.

As the pianist sets foot in the hall, his nostrils pick up on the scent of freshly baked treats, polished furniture, warmth, family, hominess. It's a dizzying sensation, and Gokudera feels his knees go weak with… is this nostalgia affecting him? Bullshit. His hand curls in a fist around the pack of fags, effectively crushing it – something that will put him in a foul mood for hours to come, but not until he notices, and that's not the case yet.

"I was going to make myself some tea. Will you join me?"

Flexibility or not, that definitely warrants a dark look. "Let's set something straight, baseball freak: I'm not here for camaraderie."

The environmental bonus becomes obvious as Yamamoto moves sinuously around the room, bypassing his guest to head for the kitchen. He's playing it cool, and damn, is it working. "Aha, fine! More to myself." The taller man walks into the kitchen, Gokudera right on his heels, and starts rummaging through the cupboards to produce a kettle and a single mug – infuriating, infuriating, this man's fucking infuriating. Gokudera is left to wait, his patience running thinner and thinner by the minute, as the Japanese fills the kettle and puts it on the stove, before finally gracing his guest with his attention. That he'd choose to do as much by leaning back against the fridge crossing his arms and legs, in the exact same stance that led Gokudera to ravage him in the first place, is but more testament to how disgustingly conniving a baseball idiot can be when out to draw blood. "Then what are you here for?"

Forget the Shigure Soen Ryu, the Vongola's Rain guardian is at his scariest when acting seductive. Unwittingly so, which is kind of the reason why this battling style is no less lethal than Shigure Kintoki's. Hoping the shiver that runs through his body is not so evident on the outside, Gokudera sucks in a deep breath he lets out in a rush when finally voicing the one question plaguing his mind ever since Jyuudaime's wake-up call: "How long?"

Since when does even Yamamoto's clueless expression look so inviting? – the Italian wonders distractedly as the brunette cocks his head to the side in stupor. "How long what?"

How long have you known I…? "Tch. How long have you been taking me for a fool?"

Those godforsaken lips that first set off Gokudera's attraction stretch in a tiny, I-know-what-you-mean-but-I-get-off-on-driving-you-nuts, smile. "You're wrong! I know very well how smart Gokudera is. There's no way I'd ever have gotten past high school without his algebra tutoring."

Hold on. To bring that up now of all moments… could it be…? Suspicion clenches Gokudera's stomach in an ice cold grip, causing the bomber's words to sound choked on as he ventures: "Even back then, you…? You knew I…?"

Yamamoto's smile takes on a weird tilt upward, one that makes the Italian's chest heave as if emptied out. Amber eyes lure him in, gentle and soft, deceptively indulgent. "I knew what, Hayato?"

Too personal, this is getting too personal, and it's not just the ballplayer's gratuitous abuse of his first name, either. It's, it's the feeling. The hunch in the air. The way Takeshi looks suddenly closer even if he hasn't moved a muscle. A shameful gasp escapes Gokudera's lips, much to the homeowner's delight, and the silverette shuffles his feet like a pathetic sixteen-year-old around his first crush. "Don't make me say it." He bites out, although the veil of telltale pink shadowing his cheeks totally ruins the impression.

Reborn's protégé must take pity on his flustered guest, for he turns around to fumble with the tea bags and kettle, thus giving the other man a much needed break to recollect himself. He's still facing away when a usually cheerful voice reaches Gokudera's ears. "I'll have to go with an educated guess, then."

Now, now would be the time to yell at the moron's back that he doesn't care, won't listen, is never putting up with all the idiocy anymore. Except he sort of misses the beat and, there, the moment's gone and Gokudera's heart is threatening to fucking leap out of his chest.

"Your answer is, no, I didn't." Yamamoto dips the tea bag in the boiling water, unperturbed. "Though I did start to wonder when you kissed me at the Vongola's party."

The bomber's breath catches in his throat. "T-That…"

"But of course," madness, this is madness, Yamamoto is cutting him off!, "you were completely wasted then." The words kind of hang in the air till, more fumbling and a kettle whistle later, the swordsman turns back around, a steamy mug in his hands. "And you wouldn't dance with me, so I didn't give it much thought." The sportsman's lower face disappears in the cup as he takes a first, tentative sip. "You sure you don't want some? I've even made it Italian style, in your honour."

"Screw your fucking tea!" The Storm guardian's infamous temper flares. Well, bite him: flexibility will only get you so far, after all. "Why did you lie to me?"

If Gokudera had thought that would throw Yamamoto off, he'd been sourly mistaken. The Japanese doesn't so much as flinch; in fact, he takes one more sip from his mug and goes as far as to hum in approval before shrugging the question off. "What other choice did I have? You'd never admit to having feelings for me otherwise."

Well, that was surprisingly fast. He'd sort of expected the idiot to beat around the bush for ages before finally putting two and two together.

… wait, what did the bloody nitwit just say? ! "And I sure as fuck don't now!" The Italian shouts in outrage as the brunette's words ring in his head. Who said anything about feelings? This is not –

Uh-oh. Yamamoto places his mug in the sink and steps closer, his eyes shining with a light that Gokudera has come to think of as his intimacy glow. The Italian goes stiff as a board, but there's nowhere else to turn, and Takeshi is breaking in his private bubble before he can will himself to stop him.

The brunette's lips fall on the other man's, feather light and undemanding. A muscular arm sneaks around Gokudera's waist while a tanned hand cradles the silverette's nape, gently coaxing him to relax under Yamamoto's touch. Bloody understatement, that one: the bomber feels his knees give away and all but collapses in the taller man's arms, as the soft, sensual pressure of Takeshi's tongue tracing the rim of his bottom lip drives him almost delirious with pleasure.

Never before has Gokudera been held like this, as if he were a precious, valuable gift.

Just like that, the tight coil of tension and things unsaid twisting his insides snaps, leaving behind a warm, soft emptiness that Hayato makes sure to fill with desire, as he pulls Takeshi closer and heartily returns the kiss. Their tongues dance, whirl, hunt for each other, yet the Rain's fingers never cease to draw nonsensical patterns on the other's scalp, and that gesture alone soothes any wound Gokudera may think he ever had.

He feels Yamamoto pull away gently before lack of oxygen can seriously get to his head. Green eyes – which had fluttered closed at some point without their owner really noticing – blink stupidly to clear their sight of most delicious kiss giddiness. As it is, Reborn's protégé is quite the view himself, and Gokudera indulges in the contemplation of swollen, luscious lips and glossy eyes, taking pride in his own doing.

Lust, however, is hardly the only shade those amber orbs are painted in, and the swordsman's question is plenty indication. "I know why you've wanted to call things off, but not what made you keep coming to me in the first place. Since you were so firmly in denial about your feel – "

Now, that is still too much for Gokudera to be comfortable with. The Italian gets his point across by shooting Yamamoto a stormy look. "None of this hindsight crap, jerk." His determination deserts him soon enough, though, and the pianist ends up muttering under his breath: "Repetita iuvant."

"Aha, huh, come again?"

Typical. Green eyes roll in their orbits. "It's a Latin saying. Means, 'it helps to repeat'."

An up-to-something grin lights up Takeshi's face and, before Gokudera can make assumptions, the Rain guardian is kissing him again – slow, sexy, with intention, his right hand toying with Hayato's hair as the left one presses their bodies flush together. Much like before, the Japanese breaks their kiss a mere breath away from urging Gokudera to moan helplessly and rip off the moron's clothes.

"Did this help?"

Something just clicks at that. Because, sure, Yamamoto Takeshi takes 'idiot' to a whole new level. But he cares. And looks nice in the process. Which has everything to do with Gokudera's heartbeat defying the laws of physics at this very moment.

The Italian's voice comes out in a not so shaky, sufficiently uptight, overall prissy enough grunt: "I'm still not dancing with you."

Relief washes over the Rain guardian's face as he chuckles light-heartedly, his arms winding tighter around the smaller man's waist. "I think I can live with that."

"And there need be boundaries. Love or not, there's no way I'm gonna be seen in public with the likes of you unless you promise to behave, and of course, we have yet to hear what Jyuudaime will think about this, so don't get your hopes up, baseball nut, 'cause I... "

It's no use trying to disguise it amidst the flow – the L word is so not lost on Takeshi, Gokudera can tell by the Cheshire grin stretching the ballplayer's lips. In a minute, strong arms are pulling him up and against a well toned torso, then pressing him firmly against the edge of the kitchen table. "Hey, Hayato?" Yamamoto nuzzles his lover's neck, one knee slipping between the silverette's thighs, hot breath fanning the other's skin in a way that's plain irresistible. "Shut up."

And just this once, Gokudera is incline to obey.



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Thanks everyone for reading. Possibly, more 8059 to come!